“Today’s mostly just about making him comfortable around me, to be honest,” she says. “I know it’s a bit crazy, showing up just to spend some time with him, but I was assured by your secretary that I have free reign to approach this job however I want.”
“You do,” I growl, mouth dry, trying to mask my need with gruffness.
She blinks, shivering slightly.
Can she feel me mentally undressing her?
She must know how unbelievably gorgeous she is, every inch of her coated in irresistibility, a magnetic pull that threatens to send me charging like a marauder across the patio and shoving her up against the wall of my mansion, bending her over the pool … taking her wetly, over and over and over again.
“Um, good,” she says, and then her face hardens.
I sense she’s trying to maintain a mask of professionalism. Perhaps she’s debating the pros and cons of confronting me about the eleven inch rock hard pole in my swim trunks.
“So stay with Scrappy,” I growl. “Get comfortable with him. That sounds like a great idea.”
I push past her, throwing open the door, and walking into the house.
As I walk I take a deep breath, the scent of her drifting up my nose and infusing me, vanilla and shampoo and her, just her, the scent of her womb and her fertile pheromones swimming through me.Chapter FourKatI sit in the grass at the end of the session, letting Scrappy climb into my lap and rest his head on my hands.
Having the luxury of taking my time with a dog is a dream come true. I’ve never had the time to properly establish comfort levels like this before. I didn’t even know it would work, really, the activities and games I designed and gleaned from the internet to coax Scrappy into a state of trustfulness.
But it has, and now he’s curled up sweetly on my lap, his fur tickling my bare legs.
I let my eyes drift over Colton’s immense estate, the mansion at least twice the size of my apartment building, stretching for acres in all directions, and is surrounded by a high redbrick wall. The house itself is modern-chic, everything shiny and new and yet somehow retaining a rustic, lovable look with its redbrick facades and creeping ivy.
I feel a shiver when Scrappy shifts slightly, hair tickling me again.
Dread warps and twists through me when I remember the way Colton stared at my legs, and immediately I cursed myself for wearing the shorts. I wasn’t thinking as I got dressed, just throwing on whatever felt comfortable as I usually do when I go to training sessions.
Now, even if I’m physically comfortable with Scrappy curled against me, I feel a stabbing in my mind.
All last night and today, my thoughts have been slaves to Colton, to crazy unrealistic fantasies of his six foot six body stripped bare for me.
Last night I saw him in my dreams, shirtless, Navy-SEAL muscles heaving and his square jaw tight with desire. I imagined his green eyes brimming with hot lust and his large powerful soldier’s hands smoothing over me, making me quiver and moan with ecstasy.
And now, as usual, today I realize what a fool I was.
Again, he seemed angry with me, and when he pushed past me it was with the stride of a man who couldn’t get away quickly enough.
I glance up when the patio door slides open, pushed from my reverie.
Colton steps out, changed into a long-sleeved shirt and trousers now, the sleeves rolled up slightly to show forearms that look like they’re carved of pure sinew. He walks slowly over to us, his frame blocking the sunlight, becoming a silhouette so that I can’t see his expression.
I focus and realize he’s smirking.
Is he mocking me?
I glance at his crotch, briefly, a whisper of a look I hope he doesn’t notice.
Earlier I almost thought I saw something there—some desire, like his manhood was hard for me and any second he’d pull it out and command me to move close to him, tell me what to do, show me the way to pleasure him.
But this is Colton Crew, one of the richest men in America, a man who could have a dozen supermodels kicking down his door with their stilettoed heels at a moment’s notice.
Scrappy looks up as he strolls over, but then settles down when he sees that it’s only Colton.
Only Colton.
The phrase rings out with the sound of an oxymoron in my mind because Colton isn’t only anything. I feel my heart trying to leap out of my mouth as he stares down at me.
“It went well, then,” he says.
There’s that same gruff note in his voice, a savage tremor, and for a crazy second the thought strikes me that Omar Lank hired Colton to lure me here, and any second that perverted psychopath is going to leap from the mansion and come running at me with a machete.